


Pneumonia

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [9]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Major Illness, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Pre-Series, War, siege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-13 21:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: Aramis' near-drowning has serious consequences, more serious than contemporary medical knowledge is capable of handling.





	1. Chapter 1

**Pneumonia **

“Morning.“ Porthos blew onto Aramis’ messy curls.

He smiled. It was rare that he got to wake Aramis, but the poor man had had quite the day. Deserved a lie in for sure, what with almost dying and all. Porthos shook his head. Too close for comfort, way too close.

When Aramis didn’t move, Porthos blew into his ear. That prompted grumbling and made Aramis roll over, burying his face in Porthos’ arm. Porthos flinched. Aramis must have found a bruise there. They’d all had a day of it; Athos and his poor hands as well.

Porthos ran his fingers along the side of Aramis’ body, bed-warm, whole, and alive. He could feel his breath against his arm, could feel the rise and fall of Aramis’ chest even under all his blankets. He was there, really there, nestled safely between them.

All winter long, they’d put their bed rolls close together in one big bedstead at the centre of their tent. That way nobody had to lie in the worst of the leaks and they could all keep each other warm. Porthos liked it that way. It was good to have his friends close, even at night.

On Aramis’ far side, Athos sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

Aramis groaned. Athos put a hand on his shoulder, about the only piece of him he could reach between Porthos and all the blankets. “Aramis?”

“’m fine,” Aramis said, rolling onto his back. “Nice and warm and comfortable.”

And safe and alive. Porthos couldn’t stop staring at him, watching him open first one eye, then the other.

“And entirely unwilling to get up,” Athos added, prodding Aramis.

“He deserves—” Porthos broke off when Athos gave him a little nod. Of course, Athos knew. But he still probed… and Porthos understood. He wanted to find out if Aramis was actually unwilling or maybe… unable?

“I’m…” Aramis yawned, then groaned and burrowed deeper into the blankets. Porthos and Athos exchanged a worried look.

“You get your sleep,” Athos said. “Captain Tréville will understand.”

Aramis growled and got onto his knees, shrugging off the blankets. “I said I’m—"

He doubled over, coughing violently. Immediately, Athos was by his side, holding his shoulders.

Porthos used the distraction to sit up gingerly. His whole body ached. He tried to pinpoint the pain, tried to find out what really hurt, but couldn’t. Everything hurt. He felt like… well, like he had jumped into the sea and been smashed against the rocks by those damned waves. He took a deep, steadying breath, but had to bite down sharply on his cheek to keep from crying out. _Merde_, that hurt.

Aramis sputtered and wheezed. Porthos traced soothing circles on his back until he felt his friend relax.

“Stupid water,” Aramis croaked. He gladly took the wine Athos handed him to soothe his throat.

Porthos ruffled his hair. “Why’d you have to go and drink it?”

“All in a day’s work,” Aramis said. “It’ll pass.”

He sighed and leaned back against Porthos. The sudden pain drove the breath from Porthos with a moan. In an instant, Aramis sat up again.

“What’s wrong?”

Porthos smiled. “You hit a bruise.”

“A bruise?”

Porthos rolled up his sleeve revealing deep purple marks along his arm.

“Much like you,” he said, pointing to a dark spot on Aramis’ wrist.

Aramis flexed his fingers. “Shame they didn’t think to cushion those rocks.” He yawned. “Sorry. Let me… I’ll have a look at these.”

He took Porthos’ hand in his and gently felt his way up towards his shoulder. The skin was tender and shone with all the colours of a tannery.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said, rubbing his forehead. “I’m sorry, I should…”

“It’s just bruises,” Porthos soothed.

“Really just bruises?” Aramis asked suspiciously. “Are you sure you didn’t cut…”

“Not even a graze. I was in uniform.”

Aramis nodded. “I’m sorry. Let me…” He made to untie Porthos’ shirt, but his fingers were stiff and uncooperative and he fumbled with the laces.

“Shh,” Porthos said, capturing his hands. “They’ll fade in a few days. Don’t worry.”

Aramis was exhausted enough as it was, he didn’t need to feel guilty on top of that.

“Just bruises?” Aramis looked up at him intently, eyes boring into Porthos’, searching for the lie.

Porthos smiled. “Just bruises.”

Aramis held his gaze for a moment, then returned his smile. “I’m glad. You could have...”

Porthos shook his head. “Don’t go there. _You_ could have…”

Aramis traced the outline of a particularly large bruise. “Let’s not dwell on it.”

“Do I need to…” Athos let the sentence peter out, holding up his hands. Aramis had wrapped them the night before. He’d barely been able to stand, but he’d still taken care of Athos’ injury. That’s what he did, no matter what.

Aramis beckoned for Athos to sit down and carefully untied the thin strips of linen. Athos’ hands were still an angry red, skin torn from the palms. A few spots had been bleeding. Aramis tutted.

“That’s what gloves are for.”

Athos ducked his head. “They were wet and I… I evidently wasn’t thinking.”

Aramis took a clean cloth and some water from Porthos. He pressed down on a burst blister and watched Athos struggle not to flinch. “This should remind you to wear them, at least for a few days.”

While he cleaned the wounds, Aramis had Athos move all his fingers and clench his fists. It must have hurt, but Athos made no sound. Aramis nodded, seeming content with his findings. Injuries to the hand were difficult, he always said. Easy to lose feeling or the use of a finger or two. Easy to be maimed for life. 

Porthos handed him his medical bag and Aramis applied ointment to the wounds before wrapping them in clean linen. He wound the bandages over Athos’ wrists and tied them off on his arm.

“I tried to keep them as thin as possible,” he said. “See if your gloves will fit. If not, you’re wearing Porthos’. You’re not getting these dirty.”

Despite some half-hearted protest, they left Aramis in the tent when they reported for duty that morning. Porthos had brought him breakfast and Athos had left him with strict instructions to rest. Tréville suggested sending for the physician, but Athos assured him that Aramis was tired, but not injured in any way.

Tréville assigned them light duties. He didn’t say so, but he was clearly letting them rest as well. The king was expected to be in a council meeting for most of the day and they were stationed outside the door to the council chamber. They were far from the fortifications there. The royal camp in and around the village of Aytré had its own set of walls and several regiments were quartered around the small Châteaux des Réaux in which the king lodged and held council. The quietest spot in the entire thing was probably right where they were stationed, away from the siege outside and the politics inside. It suited them. Athos wouldn’t have to use his poor hands and Porthos wouldn’t have to move too much.

Their post was what Athos called ceremonial. Aramis would call it pointless. Nobody was going to attack the king here, in the middle of the royal camp with tens of thousands of soldiers all around. Good thing Aramis wasn’t there with them. He’d have started fidgeting within minutes and after an hour he would have had Athos hissing _“stop that”_ under his breath. Without Aramis, nobody said a word all day.

Porthos didn’t mind. It was all part of being a musketeer. And really, the boredom was much better than yesterday’s excitement. Poor Aramis. Hopefully, he was getting some sleep. It would have been nice to stay with him, but there wasn’t any reason, really. Like Athos had said, Aramis was tired, not hurt. And well, a bit of rope burn or some bruises were no excuse to neglect their duties. They’d have been the regiment’s laughing stock and more proof for the rest of the army that musketeers were prissy ponces.

Porthos shifted from one foot to the other. Maybe they had a point. He must be growing soft because these bruises really hurt. At first, they had only hurt when he moved, but now they also hurt when he stood still. He sighed. Right then, this wouldn’t be a comfortable day.

He looked at Athos who stood still as a statue. He could have been. He was a beautiful man. There was no hint of pain on his face, no sign of his injury except for the knotted ends of the bandages peeking out between his right glove and sleeve. Had anything happened, Athos would have fought as well as ever, pain or not. Porthos had no doubt about that.

He did have some doubt about his own abilities. Standing hurt. Moving his arm barely an inch hurt. Clearing his throat hurt. Come to think of it, breathing was probably the thing that hurt the most. Shame that there was nothing much to be done about that. It annoyed him. He wasn’t usually one to be terribly sensitive. He could take punches and kicks and keep fighting. He’d once kept fighting with half his face sliced open, and now he was damn near tears over some bruises.

The hours crawled by. A lavish lunch was served for the king, the cardinal, the generals, and whoever else was important. Not for them though, as Porthos’ growling stomach remarked. Hopefully, somebody had brought Aramis some lunch. Madame Couture, most likely. She’d be delighted to help her hero out and to talk the ears off him while she was at it. Maybe she’d at least make sure he stayed in their tent and rested. For all his experience as a medic, Aramis was the worst patient. If standing around bored him, staying in bed all day was mighty close to torture. It’d do him good though. He really hadn’t been himself that morning.

Porthos willed the church bells to chime faster. Not that it would make a jot of a difference. They’d be here for as long as they were needed, for however long the king decided to take talking to the others. And after that… Porthos wasn’t sure what he actually wanted to do to escape the pain. Sitting down didn’t sound any more appealing than standing up. It wasn’t his legs that hurt, after all.

It wasn’t just bruises, he decided at some point during the afternoon. There was no way bruises could hurt that much. Every breath felt like it was cutting into him and the slightest cough was agony. He’d probably cracked a rib or two. Bothersome, yes, but nothing too bad in the grand scheme of things. Aramis’ treatment for cracked ribs was always the same—instructions to take it easy for a bit. And Porthos was taking it easy. Nothing easier than standing around all day. Really, there wasn’t much of a point in telling Athos and making a fuss.

He knew how dangerous hiding injuries could be. But there was no danger here and there wasn’t anything Athos could do. It was breathing that hurt and he’d have to be breathing whether he was on duty or off. No difference at all. Porthos made sure to take shallow breaths though so he didn’t jostle anything he shouldn’t. Aramis would probably have his head for that. A fully rested Aramis who’d done nothing all day would probably have his head for something either way. Best not provoke him.

After they had finally been relieved, they went straight to the kitchens. Old Serge was in his elements with many men to command and imposed an iron discipline with his ladle. Boys scurried back and forth, doing their best to look busy and escape his rants as they prepared the evening meal for the regiments stationed at Aytré. Serge waved at the two of them and handed them supplies enough for ten, asking after Aramis and sending his best wishes for a speedy recovery. They arrived at their tent laden with food and drink. Afraid he’d drop them, Athos had let Porthos carry the bottles of wine, which proved to be painful.

Back at their tent, not a single lamp had been lit and Aramis lay flat on his back in the middle of an untidy pile of blankets. His left arm was draped over his eyes. He didn’t move. Porthos cursed, dropped the bottles, and flew to Aramis side.

“What is it?” he asked, dragging Aramis’ arm from his face. “Are you—”

“Near death.” Aramis sighed. “Death from acute and intense boredom. I’ve been confined to this tent all day since somebody…” He sat up and stabbed an accusing finger in Athos’ direction. “…set up sentinels that ushered me back in if I took more than a minute to relieve myself.”

Athos shrugged, unimpressed. “You were to rest today. Consider_ me_ relieved that you did.”

“Rest. I wish.” Aramis gesticulated dramatically. “Madame Couture kept me company for three hours straight.”

Porthos chuckled, relieved to see Aramis back to his usual self. “And you were still bored?”

“Yes, I was.” Aramis huffed. “Somehow she thought I was _too delicate_ for any _more vigorous_ activity. And I wasn’t allowed out.” He glared at Athos. “So I was stuck listening to her retelling of every death by drowning that’s ever happened around here. For three hours.”

Athos smirked. “Nonetheless, we find you much recovered.”

Aramis snarled at him. “Be quiet, you, if you want to wake up with all your limbs still attached.”

“Speaking of limbs,” Porthos said, lighting a lamp. “Have a look at his hands before you murder him. He can’t even carry a bottle of wine.”

“I’m not—” Athos started to protest, but Aramis interrupted him.

“Not even a bottle of wine. Now that is serious. Show me.” Bickering forgotten, he carefully helped Athos remove his gloves and then untied the bandages. They had stuck to the open wounds in places. Porthos put a hand on Athos’ shoulder to try and give him some comfort while Aramis picked at the linen.

Aramis was more focussed than he had been that morning. He carefully looked at each scratch and blister, cleaning and drying the hands, but not binding them again.

“I’d like to let these get some air tonight,” he said. “But be careful.” He gently held Athos’ hands in his. “Thank you, my friend.”

Athos looked away and didn’t reply. Aramis smiled at Porthos instead.

“All right?”

“Ye—” Porthos stopped and swallowed. “Actually… could you have a look? Think I might’ve cracked a rib.”

Aramis’ eyes widened. “Oh no,” he said. “Oh no, oh no, oh no…”

Porthos shrugged. “It’s just a rib.”

“It’s never just a rib.” Aramis pressed down on Porthos’ shoulders. “Sit,” he hissed. “I can’t look at it like this.”

Easier said than done. Porthos suppressed a groan as all his bones shifted and ground against each other when he eased himself down onto the bed.

“How dare you say, it’s just a rib.” Aramis slapped Porthos’ hands away from the ties of his shirt. “You don’t move unless I tell you to.”

Before Porthos had quite realised what he was doing, Aramis had ripped his shirt straight down his chest.

“Watch it,” he protested. “That was my best shirt! Barely even had any patches.”

“Shut up,” Aramis snapped. “Shut up and let me save your very best life. You won’t get that at the tailor’s.”

“Come on, it’s not—”

“Look at this!” His fingers ghosted over Porthos’ body. “Look at this and tell me it’s not serious.”

“Goodness,” Athos breathed. “Why didn’t you say?”

Porthos looked down. Oh. Well… That did look worse than expected. His entire left side was swollen and bruised so badly it appeared black in the dim light. Ah well... “It’s ribs,” he said. “You always say there’s nothing you can do, but take it easy for a few days…”

“How dare you…” Aramis’ voice had dropped to a tight whisper that eventually caught in his throat and made him cough.

His fingers firmly traced Porthos’ collarbone and then dipped lower. “This is going to hurt. But you’ll be used to that by now.”

He wasn’t gentle. He placed his fingers either side of each rib and followed one after the other from breast to flank. The pain was bearable until he’d made his way half way down Porthos’ chest. Then it burned white-hot. Porthos grunted through gritted teeth.

“Broken,” Aramis hissed and repeated the movement, pressing down even harder and making spots dance in front of Porthos’ eyes. “And you can thank the Lord that one’s aligned and not sticking into your lung.”

“Aramis, let him…”

Completely ignoring Athos, Aramis moved on to the next rib, making Porthos groan again.

“Broken as well. What’s this? Now _you_ want to kill yourself? That it? Well, you should have said. Could have found someone to stick a knife into you. Much easier.”

He snarled at Porthos. If he got any angrier, he’d probably be breathing fire.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said.

“What on earth were you thinking?”

“I thought it was bruises.”

“Bruises! And some broken ribs that’ll pierce your lung and kill you slowly and painfully, gasping for air.”

“Is there any danger of that?” Athos asked.

“No.” Aramis got up and stalked from one end of their tent to the other like a caged animal.

“Then what is your suggested treatment?”

Aramis gave their bags a vicious kick. “No point in binding them, is there?”

“Do you have a cream?” Porthos asked.

Aramis rounded on him. “Of course, I have a cream. And it would have done a lot more good if I’d applied it last night, you damn fool!”

He continued his pacing. Porthos looked at Athos who lifted an eyebrow at all the dramatics. At least Aramis was back to full health.

Aramis rooted through their pile of possessions, throwing bags, clothes, and even a saddle onto their bed, still muttering angrily.

“You’re not to lie down like that,” he hissed. “You’ll sleep sitting up or by God, I’ll tie you up so you can’t move.” He knelt down to build up a significant pile of things. “And you’re in the middle again,” he added, as if that settled things.

Athos hid a smile behind his hand, but Porthos remained serious. As silly as it seemed, it was serious to Aramis.

“What else should I do?” Porthos asked.

Aramis threw a spare bag across the tent where it landed with a clatter. “You take it easy for a while.”

The evening was much tenser than Porthos would have liked. They should have been celebrating. Aramis was alive and well, aside from a slight but persistent cough. All three of them were still together. It should have been a good night. Instead Aramis was hovering, fretting over Athos’ hands and Porthos’ ribs.

When they settled down for the night, it took Porthos a few moments to find a comfortable position, but it wasn’t the first time he’d slept propped up on a saddle. He’d definitely had worse. A few times he woke when pain shot through his body as he was trying to shift in his sleep, but he always fell asleep again quickly. An hour or more before dawn, he woke to feel Aramis’ hand on his forehead.

“No fever,” Aramis whispered. “No infection… not yet.”

“Shhh.” Porthos made to grab Aramis’ hand, but moaned low in his throat when his body protested the movement.

“Are you…” Aramis’ fingers dropped to his ribs, touch gentle this time.

“It hurts,” Porthos admitted. “But I slept well.”

Aramis slumped back onto the blankets. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t been so clumsy…”

“You were saving the king. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I should have checked for injuries. Why didn’t… I should have checked…”

“You were barely alive.” Porthos blindly reached out with his left, moving as little as possible, resting his hand on whatever part of Aramis he could grab. “Are you cold?”

Aramis hesitated. “A little.”

He always was. And with at least one of their blankets spread across the saddle and not him…

“Come here, then.” Porthos made to drag him closer, only to hiss in pain. “You’ll have to move yourself though.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

“Nonsense.”

When Athos woke, he looked at Porthos and across to where Aramis was curled up on his other side and smiled. Porthos returned his smile. After all the excitement of the previous days, it felt good to be back to normal.

Tréville heartily disagreed.

“What am I supposed to do with you lot?” he asked. “One unable to use his hands, the other barely even breathing. Is this a regiment or a sanatorium?”

“I’m fit for duty,” Aramis said, bouncing on his feet with impatience after the previous day’s enforced rest.

“You!” Tréville jabbed a finger against his breast. “You nearly died on me two days ago. It’ll be a long time before I put you anywhere close to active duty again.”

“But captain…”

“But what? Your clothes have barely dried and you want back on the battlements? I think not. You haven’t even got a pauldron.”

Porthos flinched even more than Aramis at that. Aramis’ pauldron was currently on the bottom of the ocean because Porthos hadn’t been able to save it. To save Aramis with it on. To save the parts of Aramis that were tied to it.

“Apologies,” Tréville said gruffly. “But the point stands. You shall remain within our camp until we have resolved that situation.”

That situation. Porthos thought back to the early days after Savoy, to Aramis’ joy at touching his pauldron again. It was more than a piece of leather. To him that pauldron was full of memories of men that had left behind little else. Memories of friends and brothers. And Tréville knew that.

Despite all of their limitations, Tréville found plenty of work for them. Paperwork. It was no secret that Tréville despised the bureaucracy needed to run the regiment, but he was rarely cruel enough to dump it on anyone other than Athos.

Porthos didn’t even try to understand what on earth they were supposed to be doing. Athos shuffled through the papers on Tréville’s desk and while he was sorting them he had Aramis copy a list of supplies to be ordered from the quartermaster at the main camp. Aramis finished the letter, sealed it, and jumped to his feet.

“I’ll deliver this,” he said. “I’ll be back in time for the next one.”

“You are not to leave Aytré without a pauldron,” Athos said.

“I’ll go,” Porthos said. They wouldn’t exactly miss him while doing paperwork.

“You are not riding. Or walking for that matter.” Aramis crossed his arms and stuck his chin out defiantly.

Athos rolled his eyes. “I shall go.”

“You, my friend, shall stay,” Aramis said, putting his hands on Athos’ shoulders. “Porthos and I wouldn’t know where to start with all this.”

“So you will go, be mistaken for a Huguenot spy and shot on the spot?”

Aramis shrugged. “All I need is a pauldron. Porthos, you aren’t exactly using yours, are you?”

Before Porthos had quite processed that question, Aramis’ nimble fingers were undoing the straps and buckles that kept his pauldron in its rightful place.

“You can’t take that,” he protested.

“You heard the captain. I’m not allowed to go out without a pauldron. And you don’t need one to sit in this tent. Works out perfectly.”

Porthos didn’t feel he could complain too much, even though it felt like Aramis was removing a part of him. But it was good to see Aramis back on his feet. And it was his fault that Aramis didn’t have a pauldron, after all. If this was to be his only punishment, he could count himself lucky. He helped Aramis fasten the buckles.

“That’s as tight as it’ll go,” he said apologetically.

Aramis frowned. “Why do you have the shoulders of an ox?”

“I could punch more holes in the straps…”

“You will do no such thing.” Aramis huffed.

“We have work to do,” Athos said, looking up from the letter he was reading. “You look ridiculous. Like you borrowed it from your big brother.”

Aramis grinned. “Guess I did.”

With that, he sauntered out of the tent.

For a while, they sat in silence. Eventually, Porthos cleared his throat.

“What can I do?”

Athos continued to read, but gestured towards a book that sat on the table. “Captain Tréville is likely to be behind with his diary. He records all movements and events the regiment encounters.”

Porthos wiped his hands on his sleeves before reaching for the book. He carefully turned its pages.

“The last entry was two weeks ago.”

“Before the incident with Bisset then,” Athos said. “That should give you plenty to write about. And Aramis, of course. Injuries are to be recorded.”

“Give _me_ plenty to write about?”

Athos held out his bandaged hands. “I’m of little use with the quill these days.”

Porthos swallowed heavily. “But I…”

Athos cocked an eyebrow. “I know you can write.”

“I can… little things but not… not like that…”

“This hardly requires a poet. If you find any poetry in this, you can ask Aramis what he’d done to deserve to be banished to Captain Tréville’s desk.”

“But how do I… I don’t even know where to start.”

“With the date on the top right is the customary way.”

Porthos dipped the quill into the inkwell and painstakingly wrote the date. He bit down on the tip of his tongue to keep himself focussed. This was serious work. He breathed a sigh of relief when he could finally put the quill down and hadn’t left a single unwanted drop of ink on the page.

Athos nodded to him. “Musketeer Bisset sprained an ankle and dislocated his shoulder after his horse slipped on the way to Fort de Tadon. Urgently requested engineers to improve drainage of that road.”

Porthos stared at him. He would never have known how to say all that in so few words. Tréville had been in a right rage about it, cursing the endless mud and the uselessness of the building crews. And Athos put it all so nicely. Whatever he said, to Porthos that was poetry. He hurried to commit it to paper, only struggling with the word “drainage”, but Athos patiently spelled it out for him. They continued like that for most of the day.

Every time Aramis came in, drenched by the rain, but grinning from ear to ear, he made Porthos get up and walk around for a bit. Apparently sitting still for too long wasn’t good for his ribs. Same as moving around or lying down or standing up. Nothing was good for his ribs. They certainly hurt, there was no way around that, but now that he knew that there wasn’t anything really wrong with him, Porthos found it easy enough to ignore the pain.

That didn’t keep Aramis from decreeing that they were to have their evening meal in their tent again. Porthos needed to rest, he said. The only parts of Porthos that really needed a rest were his eyes and his hand and potentially his buttocks after all that sitting down. He found it hard to believe, but chairs could get as uncomfortable as saddles after a while.

Back in their tent, Aramis stripped bare. Porthos took the opportunity to look him up and down and sighed in relief when he found only a few bruises marring his smooth skin. It had once again rained all day and Aramis was soaked to the bone. He hung up his wet clothes and changed into dry ones, wrapping himself into a blanket for good measure. Porthos shook his head when Aramis coughed again.

“You shouldn’t have done that. You’re all wet again. It’s bad for you.”

Aramis scoffed. “It’s called rain,” he said. “It’s not the sort of water that kills you, you know.”

Porthos reached for another blanket to throw at him. “You’re cold.”

“When am I not cold?” Aramis asked peevishly. “And you stop moving around so much. That’s _really_ bad for you.”

He was cold though, really cold. When they finally went to bed, they could hear his teeth chatter.

After a while, Athos sat up. “Let’s change sides.”

“What?”

“Considering our distinct lack of a fireplace, you need to get closer to Porthos. And you are unlikely to do that on his left.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re freezing. And if you are to catch your death, I dare say you would prefer a more heroic manner.”

Porthos nudged Aramis gently. “He’s right,” he said. “Come over here where I can hold you.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know, but I need to know you’re well.”

“I _am_ well.”

Athos sighed. “You keep us up all night with your teeth clanking like horseshoes, and _we_ are not going to be well come morning. And Porthos at the very least should rest.”

That settled it. There was some shuffling and stumbling in the dark, but eventually they lay down around Porthos again, Aramis now curled up close to his body and Athos keeping his distance on the injured side.

“Be careful with his ribs,” Aramis said.

“You have my word for it,” Athos replied.

“But if you touch them…”

“I’ll kick him for it,” Porthos said. “Now stop your fretting and focus on getting warm. I’ll be fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Come on, hurry up,” Aramis said, jogging back towards them. “The milk will be cold and the food’ll be gone by the time you make it to breakfast.”

“What’s the rush?” Porthos grunted, trying to snuggle deeper into his cloak without actually moving too much.

“Usually the rush is you needing your breakfast,” Aramis said. He laughed, walking backwards to look at them. “But you seem to be slowing down in your old age, granddad.”

Porthos tried to catch him and whack the hat off his smug face, but Aramis easily evaded him, laughing even harder. Porthos wanted to say something to shut him up, but as usual he couldn’t find the right words. Nor did he really have the breath for it. He was huffing and puffing like an elderly draught horse and he’d barely done more than climb out of bed.

“Sore after your day of writing?” Aramis asked. “Maybe your buttocks need a good smack to loosen them.”

“I’ll smack you,” Porthos said, the rest of his sentence lost when a misstep disturbed his broken ribs and made him wince.

“Maybe not everyone has the temperament of an over-excited rooster in the mornings,” Athos said from behind the upturned collar of his cloak. “Would you please pipe down and slow down? At the very least until I’ve had my breakfast.”

Far from shutting Aramis up, that comment led right into an argument about the proper time to get up and whether or not there were indeed different kinds of people who functioned better at certain times of the day. It all got very heated when Aramis said not rising with the sun and going straight to work was a privilege of the pampered nobility. After all, God wouldn’t have put the sun in the sky if he didn’t want people to rise. Mixing religion and criticism of the nobility was never a good thing around Athos.

Porthos decided not to get involved. Instead he stared into his gruel, trying to ignore his friends’ bickering and the pain in his ribs. He ate a few spoonfuls, but found he didn’t really fancy it. Not that there was ever much to fancy about gruel. They couldn’t complain about the rations though, three warm meals a day and all that. Still, Porthos preferred the summer and autumn when there was fresh fruit to go with breakfast. He wasn’t hungry for these bland, colourless slops. Maybe it was all that sitting down from the previous day. Maybe you didn’t have much of an appetite when you didn’t move at all.

He got to put that theory to the test straight away. Apparently, Tréville had been delighted with his writing and found some more for him to do, so more sitting was on the agenda. At least Athos had been cheered up by the food and the argument, and they passed a fairly pleasant morning.

Porthos decided he must have slept poorly. He felt like he’d been in battle the day before and was so tired his eyes would barely stay open. It was much harder to focus on his letters than it had been and he had to ask Athos to spell out quite a few words for him. His mind didn’t want to cooperate. He even left a few splotches of ink on the page, which annoyed him greatly. The captain would not be pleased.

They didn't have to go far to get their lunch, but to Porthos it felt like they were walking all the way back to Paris. When they couldn't find somewhere to sit down at first, Porthos wanted nothing more than to sink onto the muddy ground, forget about his soup, and sleep.

Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t want to complain. Aramis had checked and told him nothing was seriously wrong. And Aramis knew about those things. But there was also that thing Aramis had said about broken ribs sticking into a lung and killing you. That didn’t sound like a pleasant way to go.

Porthos sat down heavily and needed a moment to catch his breath. Aramis was telling a new tale about Madame Couture. She had apparently redoubled her efforts with him now that he was the king’s saviour and pretty much risen from the dead. The men around the long table guffawed. They had strict orders to keep their hands off the women in the village and few of them had the coin to spare to seek out the professionals. Aramis’ valiant struggles against the widow’s advances were entertainment for them all.

Porthos tried to eat his soup, but it was difficult. Breathing had become so hard. It was near impossible to stop breathing long enough to actually swallow. Eventually, soup met air, and he couldn’t suppress a cough. His hands flew to the front of his doublet, trying to hold on to the parts of his chest that felt like they were flying apart.

Silence fell around the table. He knew everyone was watching, but Porthos couldn’t suppress a pitiful moan.

“Oh no,” Aramis said, rubbing slow circles on his back. “That must have hurt. That’s what you get for being greedy. Shh, now, calm your breathing…”

Porthos tried and failed miserably.

“Is that… normal?” he wheezed.

“Of course,” Aramis said. “Coughing disturbs your ribs. Of course, that hurts.”

“No, that you…” Porthos gasped for air. “With broken ribs… that you can’t breathe right.”

The way in which Aramis’ face fell told him that it was far from normal.

“Let me see,” came the clipped reply.

Before Porthos could even protest, Aramis had him stripped down to his shirtsleeves. The others gawped. Porthos tried to focus on Aramis’ cold fingertips tracing his ribs rather than on their stares. That could have waited until they were back in their tent, but he knew if he protested now, Aramis would make an even bigger scene of it.

“Breathe as deeply as you can.”

Porthos did, but immediately had to cough again. Aramis pressed his hands gently onto his broken ribs, keeping him from falling to pieces. Porthos squeezed his eyes shut to try and blink away the tears. When he opened them again, Aramis’ brows were drawn together, his forehead wrinkled.

“The ribs are still aligned,” Aramis said. “Nothing shifted. Nothing is in your lung.”

Porthos nodded. “Alright then. Sorry. Thought I’d ask.”

Aramis bit his lower lip. “I’m glad you did.”

His voice didn’t fit his positive diagnosis. Porthos was sorry he’d worried him for nothing and all in front of everyone else. He made to get dressed properly again, but Aramis stopped him.

“No, wait… let me.”

He did up the ties very loosely. “I can’t work like that,” Porthos said.

“You won’t. Back to our tent. Now. I need to…”

“What is it?” Athos asked softly, hovering over Porthos’ shoulder.

“I don’t know, I need to see if…” Aramis took in a deep breath and released it audibly.

“What do you suspect?”

Aramis shook his head. “Pray to heaven that I’m wrong. An illness…”

Porthos huffed and regretted that instantly. “You said my ribs are fine. They’ll heal. So there, all good. I don’t have some goddamn illness.”

He wasn’t weak like that. Injuries were fine. Injuries were part of being a musketeer. But he wasn’t some babe in arms who’d come down with an illness.

Aramis helped him up like he was suddenly an old man. Everyone stared, wide-eyed like they were witnessing something terrible. Two of Serge’s boys were gossiping over the big pot of soup, eyes fixed on Porthos. Like they all expected him to keel over at any moment. Like they knew something he didn’t.

“Careful,” Aramis said. “Don’t walk too fast. Don’t exhaust yourself.”

“This morning you wanted me to hurry up.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise…” Aramis looked away and bit down on his lip again.

“Realise what?” Athos asked. “Tell us what you think.”

Aramis shook his head. “I don’t want to speculate. Let me make sure.”

Athos nodded. “I appreciate your candour.”

Porthos stopped to catch his breath. Both of them looked at him with great concern.

“Can you stop acting like I’m half dead?” Porthos snapped.

Aramis smiled at him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If the Lord’s willing, we will in a minute. Humour me, please.”

Porthos rolled his eyes. “Course I will.”

He certainly wouldn’t mind a little lie down. Walking was hard work again. He wasn’t feeling right at all. It had to be his ribs. Aramis would see. His ribs and nothing bad. Maybe the bruises had swollen and were stealing his breath. Something like that.

Aramis seemed to suspect something similar. He was ridiculously careful when he helped Porthos sit down on their bed and get rid of his cloak and doublet.

“I need to take your shirt off,” he said.

“Don’t rip it,” Porthos said. “You rip that one and I’ll have to wear yours.”

Usually, Aramis would have replied something about his shirts bursting at the seams if Porthos so much as stuck one arm into them, but he didn’t say a word, as he helped Porthos undress without ripping a single stitch.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked, running a hand down his arm.

Porthos smiled. “Not as bad as you seem to think.”

Aramis glared at him. “Be honest, please.”

“I’m tired. Didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

Athos shook his head. “You always sleep well.”

“When I actually do something and don’t sit ‘round all day.”

“What else?” Aramis asked.

“I can’t breathe right. Walking… everything feels like a fight.”

Aramis brushed his fingers through Porthos’ hair, then put his hand flat onto his forehead. He frowned before moving his hand lower to feel Porthos’ pulse. Porthos tensed.

“Alright?” Aramis asked.

“Your hands are freezing.”

“Sorry. Try to breathe normally.”

Of course as soon as he said that, Porthos had to cough. He moaned wretchedly now that they were away from the others. It had to be some special torture where they broke your bones first and then made you cough. Being stabbed felt nicer than this.

Once he was done, Aramis’ now slightly warmer fingers returned to his throat. They sat in silence to let Aramis do his thing. Porthos wondered what he hoped to feel there. His heart beat fine. He hadn’t even lost any blood. No matter how dramatic their little swim had been for Aramis, Porthos didn’t have a single scratch. But judging by the look on Aramis’ face he might as well have been bleeding out.

“Maybe a little fast,” Aramis said eventually. “But nothing bad.”

Porthos smiled up at him. “Told you so.”

“Your cough though… and the tiredness.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It is. You haven’t been yourself all day,” Athos said. Porthos glared at him.

“What?” Athos shrugged. “I know your spelling is better than that.”

“I’m tired, nothing else.”

“Could he have caught a cold?” Athos asked. “The sudden immersion in cold water, the ride back…”

“Hmm.” Aramis sounded unconvinced. “Maybe. I’ll check the lungs. We’ll see.”

His hands moved to Porthos’ shoulders, squeezing lightly before he crawled over to kneel behind Porthos. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll be gentle.”

“What are you doing?” Porthos tried to look over his shoulder, which wasn’t easy without moving his ribs. Funny how much you actually needed your ribs and how easily you forgot about that when you hadn’t cracked one.

“I need to check if air is getting into your lungs. I’ll tap your back and then I can hear it.”

“Hear my lungs?”

“There’s a different sound when there’s air. A bit like a drum.”

“I’m not a drum,” Porthos protested.

Aramis patted his shoulder. “Deep breath in and then hold it.”

Porthos grumbled a little, but did as he was told. Aramis started tapping his back with his fingertips. It was a very odd sensation. And odder still…

“That was the wrong side,” Porthos said once Aramis had stopped. “Left side is hurt.”

“I want to hear what’s normal first,” Aramis said. “Deep breath again.”

That was probably a lie. He’d mixed up his sides, for sure. But Aramis always had an excuse for anything he did wrong. Drove Tréville and Athos up the walls. Porthos indulged him as long as it wasn’t anything important.

The tapping started again and on the correct side it was extremely uncomfortable. The touches were light, but it felt like Aramis was digging his fingers right into the bruises. When he was done, Porthos hissed out the breath between his teeth. That hurt as well, obviously. Everything hurt. He leaned into Aramis’ touch on his shoulder.

“I need to listen to your breath,” Aramis said. His voice was too clipped, too sharp for it to be good news. “Breathe normally.”

Immediately, Porthos couldn’t remember how to breathe. This was getting old very quickly. It didn’t help that Aramis was kneeling next to him now, pressing his ear to his chest. Nobody could be expected to be all calm and collected with that.

It took forever. Porthos looked down at Aramis’ head, his soft wavy hair with the little curls around the nape of the neck. Beautiful Aramis, who only a few days ago had been… The moment when Aramis fell flashed in Porthos’ mind. The moment when Aramis had realised he was going over and that he wasn’t going to survive… The moment when Porthos had known he wasn’t going to let that happen.

Aramis sat back on his haunches and brushed a hand over his beard.

“What is it?” Athos asked. Porthos blushed, suddenly aware that Athos had seen him with Aramis’ face basically pressed into his crotch

Porthos knew it was bad when Aramis looked at Athos, not him, when he replied.

“He can’t breathe because his lung his filled with phlegm.”

“Pneumonia?” Athos asked. He truly knew everything.

“Yes.” Aramis finally turned to Porthos. “An inflammation of the lung. It fills with phlegm and hardens. It’s… it’s very hard on the body.”

Porthos nodded. He could do hard. He didn’t mind. “I can handle that.”

Aramis bit down hard on his lower lip. Porthos wanted to say something to reassure him. He’d be fine. If he was anything, he was strong. Aramis would see. He’d be fine.

“Right,” Athos said. “What do you need to treat it?”

Aramis stared into space. “I don’t know.”

Porthos blinked in disbelief. Aramis never said that. Aramis always knew something, and if he didn’t, he made something up.

“You must have a plan,” Athos pressed. “Whatever you need, I assure you I can procure it.”

He was right, of course. Athos could do impossible things if he put his mind to it.

“And what if I don’t?” Aramis snapped. “This isn’t a dislocated joint or a cut I can stitch. I don’t know.”

“You detected a fever, right? Surely you have ways to bring that down.”

“Of course I do. But should I? Or is the fever what’s needed to burn away the phlegm? Don’t speak of things you don’t understand, Athos!”

Porthos looked from one to the other, surprised at Aramis’ tone and confused by his lack of ideas. Athos was poised for a sharp reply but pulled himself back with an effort.

“I see I’m not needed here,” he said. “I shall go and inform Captain Tréville.”

“Don’t.”

Both of them stared at Porthos.

“I do think he would rather like to know,” Athos said.

“No, I’ll be fine. It’s nothing but an illness.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Aramis said

“You don’t understand!” Porthos was panting, trying to get enough air, trying not to cough. “I can sit. I can write. He doesn’t need to know.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Aramis said.

“And Captain Tréville really does need to know and I assure you, he would want to know as well,” Athos added.

“Why?” Porthos asked. “So he can kick me out?”

He hated that his voice cracked on that question. Weakness. Around them were the clatter and voices and steps, the usual sounds of the camp. Inside, the silence fell like a heavy blanket of snow.

“After that wound.” Athos indicated the back of his leg. “I couldn’t even sit for two weeks. And still, Captain Tréville kept me.”

Porthos shook his head. “That was an injury.”

And that was different. Injuries were musketeering. Illness was weakness. And musketeers couldn’t be weak.

“What about me after Savoy?” Aramis asked. “I was useless for months. And Tréville kept me.”

Porthos didn’t look at him. He didn’t want to think about that. Aramis was doing well. He was so far from that little bundle of a man huddled under his blankets. He was so good, so far from useless.

“That wasn’t an injury,” Aramis said.

“It was different,” Porthos murmured. “It was you. You were the only one. And you were… you. Sniper, medic… everything…”

“And you are you. Wrestler, street-smart…”

“It’s not like that.”

“Friend,” Athos added.

“And the absolute idiot who dives into the sea even though he can’t swim.”

“Thank you,” Porthos said, smiling sadly. “But that’s you. Tréville…”

Aramis protested, said Tréville liked him and valued his skills. That he was a great musketeer. But really, if he’d been honest he’d have said that all musketeers were great and Porthos wasn’t anything special. There were thousands of soldiers all around. Better men, healthier men, more deserving of a place in the regiment. Aramis didn’t agree.

Athos shook his head and took his hat. “Wait and see what happens when I tell him.”

What happened first was that Aramis got a young boy to run and fetch Porthos’ lunch for him. Not that Porthos was hungry, but Aramis pressured him to eat, telling him it was necessary even though Porthos felt he was choking every time he swallowed and was constantly worried he’d have to cough again.

In the end worrying didn’t help and he did have to cough and it hurt. He didn’t want it to hurt. He didn’t want Aramis to worry and he didn’t want to complain and be weak. He wasn’t weak. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t as bad as Aramis thought. He’d be fine.

“Come on,” Aramis said. “You have to eat.”

“I thought you didn’t know what you have to do with this,” Porthos grumbled. He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t want to cough even more.

“I don’t.” Aramis looked so dejected that Porthos regretted his comment immediately. “But it can’t hurt to keep your strength up, can it?”

Porthos had to eat then, coughing be damned. He couldn’t stand to see Aramis so sad. Fortunately, they weren’t alone for long and he didn’t have to eat much. Athos stepped back into the tent, followed by Tréville. The captain’s boots splashed into the puddle that always formed by the entrance. He looked furious.

Porthos tried his best to sit up straighter and look healthier, but Tréville glared at him. As he should. This wasn’t what Porthos wanted, not at all.

“I’m not having this.” Tréville shook his head and turned on his heel. “This is not worthy of my musketeers.”

He stormed out of the tent still ranting and shouted at somebody outside. They stared at each other. Porthos could tell that this wasn’t what Athos had thought he would get to see.

Not worthy of the musketeers.

Porthos had known it would happen, but it still stung. He wanted to be worthy. What was he if he wasn’t a musketeer? Now he really felt as sick as Aramis thought he was and it had nothing to do with his ribs or some inflammation. At least Aramis didn’t pester him with the soup anymore. Porthos was sure he would have thrown it right back up. His stomach felt like he had eaten rocks.

Nobody spoke. Porthos wondered how they would cope, then chided himself for the thought. They’d be fine, of course. They were both capable musketeers. They would have each other. He’d served his purpose for a while, had done what he could. They’d be fine. And he… He’d go on somehow, always had. Though it would be harder now, after knowing this, knowing them. After being a musketeer, after being friends with such men — what could ever compare?

It didn’t matter, really. He’d curl up somewhere, hunker down and see out this fever or whatever it was. And then… There were so many regiments all around, he’d find someone who’d take him. He wasn’t bad, he knew that. But too weak to be a musketeer, too ill. He smiled a little. He could even be the stablehand now, thanks to Aramis. He’d be fine, always was.

They sat next to him and said nothing.

“Don’t you have work to do?” Porthos asked. He’d rather not have them around when Tréville returned to kick him out properly. He’d like them to remember him when he was still worthy.

They glared at him.

“We’re staying with you,” Aramis said.

So they stayed and sat and said nothing. Porthos didn’t know what to say. He should probably be saying his goodbyes, telling them he’d always remember them and to look after themselves. But he felt like saying it would make it real. He wanted to enjoy those last few minutes of being a musketeer. Those minutes stretched into more than an hour before the captain reappeared. He barely even stepped foot into the tent.

“You are moving, all of you,” he said. “I’ve organised a room at the castle.”

“A room?” Athos asked.

“I’m not having him in a leaking tent, not in this condition.” Tréville turned to Porthos. “I’m sorry. I should have done this after the incident on the sea wall.”

Porthos shook his head. “You don’t have to do that. We’ll be fine here and there isn’t enough room.”

The castle was small. Not much of a castle. They only called it that because it was the largest house around. The rooms were quickly filled with the king, his advisors and visitors, and the necessary servants. There wasn’t space for soldiers, not even musketeers. And it wasn’t bad. Their tents were large and the paths in the camp were covered with planks, keeping their feet out of the mud.

Nobody heeded Porthos’ protest. Several other musketeers arrived to carry their things, bags, saddles, clothes and all. Porthos’ head swam with the sudden buzz of activity. He hadn’t expected that. When Athos and Aramis helped him up, the blood rushed to his feet and he stumbled. Athos reached out to steady him.

“Lean on me,” he said quietly.

Porthos didn’t want to but he had to admit he felt safer having his friend close by. He was sweating before they were anywhere close to the castle. Every step was hard work. They had to stop several times so he could catch his breath. Tréville was watching closely, shaking his head and scratching his beard. Porthos wanted him to look away, to not see how weak he really was. Weak and not like a musketeer at all. He wasn’t worthy, but the captain still did all this for him…

“You don’t have to do this,” Porthos gasped when they reached the back entrance of the castle.

“Nonsense,” Tréville said. “You are a king’s musketeer. You deserve a room.”

“But somebody…” Another coughing fit interrupted Porthos. It left him feeling shaken, leaning heavily onto Athos.

“Somebody was moved into alternative accommodation. You are not to concern yourself with those arrangements,” Tréville said sternly. “It’s your room now. For the duration.”

Porthos didn’t have the energy to protest any more. He was thankful when Athos and Aramis lowered him to the bed in their new room. He sat there for some minutes, bracing himself on his knees, trying to control his breathing. It hadn’t been much of a walk, but he felt exhausted, like he had run for hours. He kept his head bowed while he could hear others scurry around, putting their things where Athos and Aramis told them to. Finally, the door closed behind the last of them.

“How are you feeling, son?” Tréville put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine, captain,” Porthos said.

“How is he really, Aramis?”

“Feverish, fatigued, and his lung is inflamed. Pneumonia, I suspect.”

Porthos glared at him. He didn’t have to embarrass him in front of the captain.

Tréville nodded. “I see. What do you suggest?”

Porthos almost smirked watching Aramis wring his hands at that.

“I don’t know,” Aramis said. “This is beyond my skill.”

Tréville looked at him intently. Porthos felt like there was a whole separate conversation between those two happening in silence. Judging by the way Athos’ eyes flitted from one to the other, he wasn’t alone.

“Do you want me to find me a physician?” Tréville asked.

“Yes.”

The response came so fast, it took Porthos by surprise. He’d expected Aramis to dither, to deflect. Aramis liked to take care of them and he was good at it. He’d been so happy when his hands finally worked well enough to do stitches again. The few times they’d had a doctor at the garrison since, Aramis had watched his every movement like a hawk and ranted about his incompetence afterwards.

“I’ll let you settle in while I get one,” Tréville said. “I shouldn’t be long.”

Settling in meant fussing over Porthos. There were more pillows than Porthos had ever seen in one place and Aramis insisted that they all needed to go behind his back. Somehow even the dreaded soup made a reappearance. While Aramis forced Porthos to take a few more sips, Athos organised their belongings along the back wall of the room and set out his and Aramis’ bed roll. Porthos didn’t feel comfortable lording it over them on the bed, but suspected he didn’t have much of a say in their sleeping arrangements. When Aramis was taking care of someone, it was best not to interfere. And for once that was a bit of a relief. At least it meant he didn’t have to refuse the bed.

Tréville returned with a frail-looking old man with not a hair on his head but an impressive white beard.

“Gentlemen,” Tréville said. “May I introduce Jean Héroard, the king’s personal physician. His majesty is very concerned and sends his sincere wishes for a speedy recovery.”

For his majesty’s wellbeing, Porthos honestly hoped that his physician was somewhat nicer to him. He never spoke to Porthos directly, preferring to utter vague commands like _‘undress the patient’_ to the room at large.

He did much the same as Aramis before, pushing and prodding and feeling Porthos’ pulse. Unlike Aramis, he wasn’t gentle about it, caring very little about bruises and broken ribs. Knotty knuckles beat his back like a marching drum, but Porthos wasn’t going to show any weakness in front of a stranger. He couldn’t suppress the cough, but he gritted his teeth until the pain had passed and he could sink back into his pillows.

“Pneumonia,” the doctor declared. “He is of a strong constitution and by the grace of God, he may be delivered from this disease.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Héroard,” Tréville said. “What can we do to ensure his recovery?”

The doctor looked at him sharply. “That is in the hands of God, and God alone.”

“There must be some remedies,” Tréville said. “A learned man like you…”

“I have studied the human body and spirit extensively, it is true. Modern medicine has made many formidable discoveries and the Lord has aided our understanding of many common maladies.”

“I appreciate your expertise and experience very much,” Aramis said. “What do you prescribe for Porthos?”

The physician blinked at him with his small, watery eyes. “You are the medic? And what, pray, have you done so far?”

“I wasn’t sure if it was wise to attempt to lower the fever…”

Héroard waved him off. “The field medic ordinarily shows little more of an understanding for the inner workings of the mortal body than the common butcher.”

Porthos frowned. That wasn’t very kind. Athos raised an eyebrow and Tréville visibly stiffened, but Aramis remained calm.

“I know the limitations of my skill and have not dared to do much. I have made him eat so he would be able to keep up his strength.”

“A dangerous misconception. All you are doing is feeding the disease,” the doctor said. “This, then, is my prescription for this unfortunate man. That he should take no food until he is fully recovered. The disease must be starved out rather than permitted to ravage his body further.”

“What about the fever?” Aramis asked.

“It should be encouraged and allowed to burn. Given the cold water in the lungs, it provides the perfect counter point to restore the vital balance of the humours. Keep the patient warm and comfortable. I trust you know how to do that.”

Aramis bowed his head. “Thank you for your advice. I shall do so.”

Athos made a face like somebody had kicked him in the shins. “Forgive me,” he said, not sounding the least bit like he was asking for forgiveness. “But will a sustained fever not weaken him considerably, thus delaying recovery?”

The physician glared at him, but Athos met his eyes steadily.

“You have not studied the ancient masters, Hippocrates of Kos or the great Galen of Pergamon?”

“I have not.” Athos didn’t even blink. “Therefore, I require your explanation.”

Héroard cleared his throat. “Illness stems from the imbalance of the humours. Only when all four are in perfect harmony can a man be healthy.”

Athos nodded his understanding. “Continue.”

“The humours possess different qualities. In this case we encounter phlegm, the cold and wet humour associated with the element of water. An excess of this, causing the congestion in the lungs, is opposed by the hot, dry element of fire, expressed in the fever.” The old man put his hands together as if in prayer, looking serene and utterly confident in his sermon. Porthos hadn’t understood much of it, but it sounded very smart and convincing.

Athos wasn’t satisfied. “How will this opposition manifest in Porthos’ recovery?”

Héroard blinked his eyes rapidly, as if he wasn’t sure he was really being questioned like that. “The phlegm is evident in the current apathetic state of the patient.”

Porthos’ eyebrows shot up. That didn’t sound like a nice state to be in.

“With the rising fever, the patient will become more animated. An excess of yellow bile, the humour associated with fire, will result in aggression, as is sometimes seen in the dreams of the fevered.”

Porthos frowned. He wasn’t aggressive and he wouldn’t let any humour, unbalanced or otherwise, make him so.

“I see,” Athos said, though he didn’t sound like he did.

Héroard was wringing his hands. “Only if a balance can be achieved, will he recover. If…”

Athos stopped him with a gesture. “You have made yourself understood, physician.”

If there was any protest after that, Porthos didn’t hear it. He was coughing once again. But he didn’t think the doctor would complain about Athos’ tone. Somehow people never did.

Aramis crouched down next to Porthos and helped him press a pillow—how were there more pillows?—against his aching chest. With the pillow it felt a little less like pieces of him were flying in all directions, but it didn’t lessen the pain or the horrible feeling of gasping for air and not getting any. Porthos couldn’t fight it. His body wanted to cough and cough and cough. When the urge finally disappeared, he was exhausted.

Athos handed him a cup of water. Porthos nodded his thanks and tried to take small sips. The cold water soothed his throat. He swirled it around in his mouth, enjoying the moment of calm and the lack of any sharp pain.

Aramis turned away from him. “What was that all about?”

Athos cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“Interrogating the doctor.”

Athos shrugged. “I had questions and needed answers.”

Well, he’d certainly gotten those.

Aramis groaned and threw his hands in the air. “From the king’s personal physician?”

“Who better?”

Aramis jumped to his feet and rounded on Athos, getting right into his face. “We can’t afford to anger him,” he hissed. “Porthos’ life is in his hands.”

Athos stared back, not ruffled in the slightest. “God’s hands and yours I’ll accept in this. Anyone else has to explain himself.”

“And did he? Are you satisfied?”

“Not entirely.”

“What do you want?” Aramis stomped his feet. “He knows all about it, he told you everything.”

“He didn’t actually say very much.”

Aramis snarled at him, ready for a vicious response.

“He’s gone now,” Porthos said, eager to keep the peace. “Please… It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Athos said. “Because I don’t think he actually understands.”

“But you do?”

“No.”

“So could you please stop and trust the one expert we’ve got?” Aramis asked. “Cause I don’t know any better either.”

Oh. That… well… Porthos wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Aramis always knew. He’d learned about salves and teas from his mother and about herbs and humours or whatever they were called from some old monk and he knew how to stitch wounds and set bones and… everything. As far as Porthos was concerned, Aramis knew everything there was to know about medicine.

Aramis and Athos both took a deep breath, still glaring at each other.

“Fine,” Athos said eventually. “We’ll call it a truce. For now.”


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, it wasn’t just breathing that hurt, it was existing. Porthos had been ill before, plenty of times. He’d been injured and tortured, but he’d never felt like that. For the first time in his life, he thought he had an inkling of what it must be like for Aramis and Athos when one of their black moods overtook them and living became too much.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. He’d taken up nursing duties, sitting with Porthos every day. Athos was with the regiment, but came back to their room as early as possible so Aramis could get some sleep. Whenever Porthos woke, one of them was by his side.

Porthos smiled up at Aramis. “Thank you.”

“That’s not an answer.” Aramis dipped the cloth into fresh water and washed Porthos’ arms and neck. The cool water felt good. He’d be cold again soon enough, but for the moment he was sweating.

“Better now,” Porthos said. He let his head sink back into the pillows. He was always tired.

“The doctor will be here any moment,” Aramis said. He sounded worried. With an effort, Porthos opened his eyes again and tried another smile.

“It’s fine.”

Aramis fiddled with the corner of a blanket, not looking at him. “It will be,” he said.

Porthos must have fallen asleep because next thing he knew, the old man was prodding his bare chest. And then he was sitting up, leaning against Aramis’ shoulder. It was cold. He knew it was the fever and he knew it had to burn, but he was so cold. And then there was pain and he was coughing and more pain and Porthos was whining and there was so much pain and somewhere, somewhere Aramis’ voice.

“Breathe, Porthos.”

And he wanted to, but there was no room, no space for air in his body.

“Porthos, please.”

And yes, yes, of course, for Aramis, but he couldn’t get air.

“Lie him down.”

“Breathe.”

Yes, breathing. But it was hard. Such hard work.

“You can do it.”

He could do anything. He never shied away from work. He could work hard, he could breathe. They were talking, but he didn’t hear. He was breathing. He was breathing and he found that he could, that there was space. His lungs weren’t fine, but he could breathe. But it was hard work. It was like back when they were kids and everything was a battle. The constant hunger, the constant fear… It had been easier for a while, with the musketeers. And now it was back and it was hard, but he could do hard things. Not the smartest, not the prettiest, because there were always Athos and Flea and Charon and Aramis, but he was Porthos and he could work.

“You will not do that to him!” Aramis’ sharp voice cut through the memories.

“It would be very beneficial—”

“I don’t care.”

“It would help him regain his strength.”

That sounded good. Porthos forced his eyes open. “I want that,” he rasped.

Aramis frowned. “No.”

“I want…”

“Don’t.”

“Please.”

“He wants to bleed you, Porthos.”

Ah. Yes. Bleeding. Of course they would bleed him. Bleeding was good. Everybody knew that, but Porthos had forgotten all about bleeding.

“Good.”

Aramis shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’re too weak.”

Exactly. And that’s why he needed the bleeding. The doctor said he’d get his strength back. It would be good.

“Do it.”

Aramis bit his lip.

“It is the treatment I would advise for the King if, heaven forfend, His Majesty should be similarly afflicted,” the doctor said.

Porthos didn’t look at him. The brief discussion had tired him out even more. He needed this. He trusted Aramis to understand.

“Fine,” Aramis said, though he didn’t sound like he believed it. “Then do it for the king’s musketeer.”

All of a sudden Aramis was calm. The deadly calm before he made an impossible shot. Porthos knew it well. Nobody said another word. Few people did when Aramis was in that mood.

Aramis grabbed his hand and something was tied tightly around Porthos’ upper arm.

“Lie still.”

Porthos hadn’t had any plans to go dancing and he wanted to tell Aramis that, but then there was a sharp pain in his arm and Aramis squeezed his hand.

“Lie still, be good.”

Porthos looked down then and underneath the doctor’s bent head he could see himself bleed from a deep cut right in the crook of his arm.

“It’s alright,” Aramis said. “Just a little bit.”

But he was frowning and biting his lip. He was always so careful.

“It’s enough now,” he said. “Surely, that’s enough.”

“Not yet,” the doctor said. “We must relieve him from this pestilence.”

Porthos felt relieved. As he watched his blood trickle into a small bowl, everything got easier. He was feeling lighter and calmer and breathing wasn’t a chore any more. It was good. They always said that bleeding could cure anything. Porthos wondered why they hadn’t done it before.

“Stop this madness,” Aramis said and leaned forward as if to push the doctor away.

“No, let him,” Porthos said. “It feels good.”

Aramis scowled at him, but then nodded. “As long as you’re alright.”

“He will be greatly improved,” the doctor said. “Blood-letting is a remedy, which, when judiciously employed by a qualified man, can hardly be overstated in its efficacy.”

He said other things as well, but Porthos didn’t listen. He felt good. For the first time since all of this began, he felt light and happy and free. Breathing was easier and the pain was bearable.

That night, when Athos had returned, Porthos was glad that the doctor had told him he was better, because he really couldn’t tell himself. He had slept through most of the afternoon and he was still tired. But the doctor had said he was greatly improved and he would know best. He was the king’s physician after all.

Porthos wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It was difficult to tell since he wasn’t allowed food. Not that he really wanted it, but meals had a nice way of breaking up the day. Without them, everything became the same, an endless cycle of coughing and pain and sleeping. Sometimes there was Aramis’ voice, or Athos’. Sometimes they gave him water or wiped his face. Sometimes it was light and sometimes it was dark. Sometimes he was hungry, but mostly he was tired. One time, Tréville was there and there was a great deal of talking. They didn’t sound happy and Porthos wanted to stay awake and listen, but he wasn’t able to open his eyes. He could do hard things, he really could, but for the moment, lying there was hard enough.

Then the doctor was back, but he didn’t make him sit up this time, which was good because Porthos didn’t think he could have done that, no matter how hard he tried. He felt like he was back in the water, the weight dragging him down until every movement became impossible. Down and down and further down and everything was so heavy.

“Do something,” Aramis said. “You’ve got to help.”

There was more prodding, then the doctor’s voice. “Only God can help this unfortunate man.”

“But aren’t we the tools of God’s might? Aren’t we the ones to carry out his will, to aid his plan in the battlefield and at the sickbed? You are blessed with the learning and the skills to do God’s work. You have been placed here for a reason. Monsieur, I pray you, do your part.”

Porthos would have chuckled if he’d been able. But even if he found the strength… it would only trigger another cough and he had quite enough of those. It was funny, though. Aramis using religion to get what he wanted. It almost sounded like he was arguing with Athos and that was a happy memory. And of course what he said was right. The doctor was here and the doctor would help, Porthos knew he would.

“Don’t, he’s too weak.”

Aramis shouldn’t say these things. He wasn’t too weak. A little weak, maybe, but never too weak. What if Tréville heard that, then what would he think?

“This will help.”

Porthos hoped that it would. Aramis was worried, he could tell. And he didn’t want Aramis to worry. He wanted the doctor to take care of it and make it go away so his friends didn’t have to worried. Athos worried, too. Porthos had seen his eyes. They turned hard when Athos didn’t know what to do. Hard and cold, like a well-honed blade. Porthos didn’t want to worry them. He wanted to tell them it was alright, he wanted to get up and show them. He wanted…

“Take my hand.”

Ah… his hand. Of course. The doctor would help, would give him relief. That would be good. It would be wonderful to finally feel better. Bleeding had been good the last time. Porthos wanted that again, that sweet relief. He didn’t do much, but Aramis wrapped his fingers around his and stretched out his arm, ready for the blade. It would be good. Aramis squeezed Porthos’ hand and Porthos let his eyes flicker open. It didn’t last very long, but long enough to see Aramis bite down fiercely on his lip.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Aramis said.

“Please,” Porthos breathed.

Bleeding brought relief, the doctor said. And it worked. The last time it had been much easier to breathe, to live. And Porthos wanted that. They wouldn’t have to worry any more.

“Please don’t.” Aramis was pleading now and Porthos didn’t understand at all. This was good, after all. He squeezed Aramis’ hand. He’d be better soon. It’d be good. Surely Aramis wanted that.

There was the sharp prick of the doctor’s little knife again and Porthos wanted to smile at Aramis, to let him know it would be fine. Sometimes Aramis thought too much when he should just trust. Of course, it was hard for him to trust, but the doctor knew what he was doing. Aramis had wanted him to come. Aramis thought a doctor would be good. Now he just had to keep trusting. The bleeding would help and Porthos would breathe easier. He’d be fine and Aramis wouldn’t have to worry so much. It would be good.

Warm blood flowed across his skin and trickled into the bowl. It would get easier soon. Breathing and living and everything. He’d be better soon. And Aramis could relax. Athos as well… But somehow it didn’t… it didn’t feel right this time. Not like before. Not like… It felt like… like losing something… someone… like… And Aramis… Aramis said to stop. _Stop._ But it didn’t. It was fine... It didn’t need to… _Stop…_ It would get better soon, so soon... He didn’t feel very good. But it was fine. He’d be better soon… Bleeding helped. He knew that. Bleeding… He was bleeding and… bleeding… the blood was warm and… and… blood… Porthos… He wasn’t that weak… he could… he was… he… _Porthos, stay awake!_

He wanted to. He wanted… Aramis… Aramis… Ahh…

Nothing.

Then something.

Shouting.

Words.

Voices, so loud. And somewhere… The thought slipped away from him before it was fully formed. Others followed, sliding through Porthos’ head without touching the sides. He wasn’t trying to grasp them, wasn’t trying to do anything. He simply observed. Thoughts passed like ships on the horizon, fuzzy and grey. Far away and not really relevant.

The shouting continued. Loud noise somewhere far away.

And then. Aramis. That was Aramis’ voice.

Why was he shouting? Porthos tried to reach, to hear, to understand. Words floated in and out of focus until he could finally make some sense of one. _Murder._ But who was being murdered? From the sound of it, the person Aramis was shouting at. He was angry. But why? At Porthos? What had he done? Had he…? He didn’t think he’d done… anything… Was Aramis angry at someone else? But who… who was there? Athos? No… Oh… the doctor. But the doctor only wanted… it was fine. He would bleed him and Porthos would be fine… He’d be… fine.

Aramis didn’t need to be angry.

Porthos opened his eyes. The light was blinding at first, so bright. Slowly, shapes emerged from the pure white. Grey shapes at first, swimming into focus one after the other. The window… their bags in the corner… the small table laden with bottles, cups, and plates… the chair where Aramis usually…

Aramis’ voice. Still angry, still shouting.

Porthos turned his head and there he was, waving his arms around like a madman. Aramis was shouting, shouting at… Tréville. When did he get there? And why? He’d been dropping in regularly, but never in the middle of the day. Why now?

Porthos focussed harder, catching words and making sense of them.

“Bleeding…” Aramis was saying something about bleeding.

“Listen.” Tréville’s voice. And Porthos tried. “… the king’s personal… study… remedy…”

Porthos struggled to make out more than fragments. He could hear Aramis swear. He didn’t need to understand the words for that. Something clattered loudly to the floor and made Porthos jump, focussing his drifting mind. He watched as Aramis grabbed the small bowl the doctor had left and smashed it onto the ground.

"Look at it,” Aramis screamed as blood splattered everywhere. “Remember when you did that to me? Remember when you nearly killed me with that?"

Killing him... It had killed him once... Tréville had been angry. Shouting... Porthos had watched him drag the doctor down the stairs and throw him out of the garrison and then... There wasn't any screaming that night. They said it was the doctor's fault, that he'd tried to drain the evil spirits and had ended up draining Aramis' soul. They said he'd died. A few days later Porthos had gone and seen that Aramis was alive… barely. He’d fed him and… feeding him… he’d needed to regain his strength… Porthos smiled a little to himself. That had certainly worked. Nothing weak about Aramis now, not with the way he was carrying on.

“What’s going on here?” Athos stepped into the room, hand on his sword, ready to draw. His eyes dashed from Aramis to the captain, across the spilled blood and then… “Heavens, Porthos.”

Athos knelt next to the bed, removed a sodden bandage from Porthos’ arm and pressed his handkerchief against the wound that was still bleeding sluggishly.

“Why did you bleed him?” Athos’ sharp voice made Aramis flinch.

“I did not.”

“Somebody did.”

“Héroard, the physician,” Tréville said.

“What business did he have… without consulting us…” Athos’ fingers tightened around Porthos’ arm until it hurt.

“I told him to,” Aramis said.

Athos glared at him. “Blood loss kills,” he said, voice dripping with venom.

Aramis averted his eyes. He was ashamed and Porthos didn’t want him to be. He’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t wanted this. Not now and not the first time. It had been Porthos asking for it all along.

“Bleeding helps,” he said. His voice was only a raspy whisper, but they all heard him. Immediately, Athos’ face softened and his grip loosened.

“You don’t look like it helped,” he said.

“He took too much, he made him pass out…” Aramis kneaded his forehead. “I told him to do something, but not… I didn’t think… I should have stopped him, I—"

“You had no reason to distrust him,” Tréville said.

“I should have known.” Aramis absentmindedly rubbed his own arm.

“Where is he now?” Athos asked. “Shouldn’t he make up for his ineptitude?”

Tréville smirked. “He will not be back any time soon. Aramis made his displeasure known.”

Athos lifted an eyebrow. “You threw him out?”

“Quite literally,” Tréville replied.

“What now?” Athos asked, staring at Aramis. “I thought you—”

“Don’t.” Aramis’ voice cut through his words. “I’ll figure it out.”

Porthos felt his chest tighten, felt the itching, the spasm, and he knew what was coming. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hurt, he didn’t want to gasp for air, and most of all, he didn’t want them to worry. But it was no use. He coughed.

He couldn’t do anything. It was the illness that shook him, that made his body convulse, and Porthos, Porthos was powerless. Weak, too weak to mount a defense. He was being tossed back and forth on the bed like they had been by the sea. The cough came in waves and Porthos was its plaything, there to be smashed and broken. And like that day in the ocean, he struggled to breathe. He needed air, but no matter how hard he tried, there wasn’t any. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes as his body became heavier and heavier, dragging him down. But he couldn’t… he had to… Like he had in the sea, he was holding on to Aramis. He had to make it to the light, had to reach the surface… But he was so heavy.

Finally, there was air. Not enough, never enough, but he sucked it in greedily. Slowly, the spots cleared and the darkness receded. He lay there, flat on his back, gasping like a fish on land. The darkness was gone, but the heaviness was still there, pinning him to the bed. The breath rumbled low in Porthos’ chest, reminding him of the waves crashing against the rocks. His whole body felt thoroughly smashed by those rocks on the inside as well as the outside.

Looking down on him were three worried faces. Athos wiped the sweat from his face, while Aramis put a new bandage around his arm. Tréville shook his head.

“What are we going to do with you?”

Porthos wanted to tell him he’d be fine, that he’d be fit for duty again soon, but the words caught in his throat and he coughed some more, bringing up thick yellow mucus. They helped him rinse his mouth and leaned him back against the pillows. Porthos didn’t even try to speak, just smiled at them. All three of them looked too tired to return it and he was sorry for that.

“What _are_ we going to do with him?” Athos asked. “Since the expert’s approach did not work to anyone’s satisfaction…”

Aramis ran a hand through his hair, mussing it until his curls stuck up in odd angles. “Don’t bleed him,” he said.

“I assumed as much.”

“He’s too weak.”

Porthos wanted to protest, but well… maybe Aramis had a point.

“Is it the weakness that kills, the fever, or the shortness of breath?” Athos asked.

Aramis sighed. “I don’t know.”

“What can be done to combat each of these?”

“I don’t know.” Aramis kicked the foot of the bed. “I don’t know these things, Athos. I’m not a physician. And the one who is, is only making it worse.”

Athos nodded. “I’ve seen you ease breathing with steam inhalations before. An avenue worth exploring, maybe.”

“He doesn’t have a slight cold, he has pneumonia.”

“His breathing is still constricted.”

Aramis paced up and down the small room. “You have no idea.”

“No, but I’m trying to find avenues worth exploring,” Athos said. “Would it do any harm to try?”

Aramis gnawed on his lower lip. “I don’t think… Maybe… maybe the steam could help him bring up the phlegm and soothe his lungs.”

“You said you had ways to lower the fever,” Athos prompted.

Aramis shook his head. “It’s not high enough to be dangerous and I don’t… I don’t understand what the fever does. It might help him after all.”

“Reasonable,” Athos said, nodding. “What about the weakness then?”

Aramis agonised over his answer, pulling his hair with both hands and biting his lip.

“He needs to rest and I think mainly he needs time,” he said eventually. “But… oh God help me if I’m wrong…” He looked straight at Porthos. “Do you think you could eat?”

“Yes,” Porthos said with much more confidence than he felt. He wasn’t hungry and he wasn’t sure if he could keep anything down. But if it made Aramis happy, he would try.

“Are you sure?” Tréville asked and Aramis turned to face him.

“No,” he said. “But he’s too weak and he won’t get his strength back if he doesn’t eat. You saw him; he can barely move. Maybe it’ll feed the disease… but if we don’t feed him soon, it won’t matter either way.”

Tréville looked at him for a long while, before nodding. “It’s been known to work,” he said. “Return the favour.”

Aramis took a deep breath and released it slowly. Porthos watched him as he closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t like that he worried so much. It was clear that Aramis didn’t like this one bit. But Porthos would be good. He would eat and he would do his level best to get better.

“Food it is then,” Aramis said. “May the Lord guide my hands.”

He balled his fist in his pocket, probably clutching his rosary.

“Excellent,” Athos said. “I’ll make enquiries with Serge straight away. The biggest piece of meat he can find. Tender, not from some old nag. Some cheese maybe, something substantial.”

Aramis held up his hand to stop him. “No, a weak broth.”

“A weak broth?” Athos was incredulous.

“Maybe some milk.”

“Broth and milk? I thought you wanted him to get back his strength.”

“I do. Hear me out.”

“Aramis,” Athos said earnestly. “He hasn’t eaten for days. With all due respect to your caution, he needs to be fed properly.”

“I know. And that’s why you’ll ask Serge to water down a broth.”

Athos shook his head. “That’s wrong. No man can build up his strength on a watery broth.”

“No, but he can build up his stomach again. We’ll do that first.”

Athos did not look convinced in the least.

“He’s right,” Porthos said. His voice sounded more like a croak, but at least it didn’t feel like a cough was coming. “From experience, the good stuff comes straight back up.” He smiled at them. “Learned that the hard way.”

Tréville drew in a sharp breath and turned away. Athos paused, taking a moment to process what Porthos had said.

“Oh,” he said when it finally made sense to him. “Starvation?”

“It happens.”

Athos nodded heavily. “My apologies.”

Porthos wasn’t sure what he was apologising for. It wasn’t like Porthos expected him to have experienced it for himself. He was glad that Athos didn’t know these things. Nobody should have to, but of course most people did. Not Athos, at least. That was something.

“Did it happen often?” Aramis asked. “When you were growing up, were you…?”

“We were always hungry,” Porthos said. “But sometimes… sometimes it was worse.”

He didn’t really want to remember those times, but the feeling in his stomach, that heaviness, the tiredness… he hadn’t thought of it before, but now that he had it took him straight back to the Court. It would have been Charon and Flea back then, not Athos and Aramis, but they worried much the same when one of them was ill.

“Hmm,” Aramis said, scratching his chin. “I have a theory.”

All three of them gave him a questioning look. It was good to see Aramis have one of his theories again, but Porthos wasn’t sure he wanted to hear one about himself.

“Think about it,” Aramis continued, turning towards Athos. “You’ve been with us, what? Three years next summer? And in all that time, have you ever been ill?”

Athos huffed with amusement. “Other than the obvious?”

“I don’t mean injuries or hangovers.”

“A mild catarrh my first winter,” Athos said. “I wasn’t used to the hours spent outside in the snow and rain.”

If he’d had the strength, Porthos would have laughed. As far as he was concerned, winters with the musketeers were the most comfortable he had ever known, February swimming sessions aside.

“Exactly. But Porthos was, always had been. And yet… every time one of the men as much as sniffles, Porthos picks it up.”

Athos narrowed his eyes. “A humoural imbalance, as the learned physician would say. I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“For some reason, Porthos is more easily unbalanced.”

No. No, he shouldn’t say that sort of thing.

“I’ll show you un—” The rest of Porthos’ comment was lost in another coughing fit that left him shaken and gasping for air, not sure if his broken ribs were sticking out of his body or had burrowed into his heart.

“What is your theory?” Tréville asked once Porthos had settled down.

“Starvation kills,” Aramis said. “Usually within a few weeks. But when it doesn’t… I think it still has effects, particularly in children… you see it sometimes, we see it in recruits. The stunted growth of those who never had enough to eat.”

“A fate which Porthos has clearly escaped,” Athos said.

Porthos wanted to point out that Athos was the shortest of them all, but he couldn’t find the breath to form words.

Athos looked at him and smirked. “The irony isn’t lost on me, my friend.”

Aramis didn’t engage with their joke. “I was in the water longer and swallowed much more of it. And still… I’m fine.”

Great. Porthos stared at the blanket, anything to not look at Tréville. Aramis really had to rub it in. And with the captain there and all. He had to go and shout about how useless Porthos was.

Aramis cleared his throat. “I think it has to do with your childhood, with starving so much. I think your body never developed some defences it would have if you had always had enough to eat.”

Porthos barely felt the new coughing fit that gripped him or the pain when his ribs strained. His lungs burned and rumbled, but the thoughts in his minds were much louder. His childhood. He wasn’t a child any more, he wasn’t _that_. He was a musketeer.

“It’s only a theory,” Aramis said. “You know Vincent de Paul that priest in Paris who does all the work with the poor?”

And those freed galley slaves, Porthos’ mind supplied. That priest was a saint as far as he was concerned.

“I was helping him bring food to the poor,” Aramis said.

When he’d been able to do little around the garrison, but well enough to go out, he’d often gone to the church. Another reason to be thankful to that priest.

“There was a doctor there for a while, studying the health and habits of the poor. He said something along those lines.”

“What do you think can be done?” Athos asked.

“If what I think is true… That doctor said the foundations of our bodies are laid in childhood. And I don’t think you can heal that sort of wound… You can’t make a man grow taller and while you can balance the humours… I don’t think you can make them easier to unbalance. Not in this life at any rate.”

Porthos shuddered. He’d left that life behind. And yet… as Aramis said it, Porthos could feel its cold fingers on his shoulder… the cold fingers of a small orphan boy frozen half to death in some back alley… He thought he’d shaken that boy, but now, there he was, clinging to his back, dragging him down.

From the corner of his eye, Porthos saw the captain stare at him. Of course, he didn’t want… this. The pauper, the beggar, the gutter rat. The diseased dog in the middle of his men, his valiant musketeers…

Tréville brushed a hand across his face and turned on his heels, slamming the door on his way out.


	4. Chapter 4

“So he’s gone?” Aramis asked.

“Yes.” Athos’ reply was clipped. He leaned heavily against the door.

“And the others?”

“They all are.” Athos massaged his forehead with his thumbs. “In this room, we have assembled half of what’s left of the regiment at La Rochelle.”

“Who else is staying?”

“Bisset. Captain Tréville didn’t think he was fit for the long ride. Bernard is with him, to keep him company as much as to be useful around here. One of the boys, Hugo, to look after our horses.”

Aramis whistled low through his teeth. “Not many.”

“We are the king’s musketeers,” Athos said. “We go where the king goes.”

Only they didn’t, not this time. Porthos was sorry to be the chain and ball around their legs, but it couldn’t be helped. They’d made it very clear that they were unwilling to leave him and that, at any rate, Tréville had forbidden it.

“Even when we don’t approve.” Aramis looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience.

“It is not for us to approve, nor indeed for Captain Tréville, or in fact the cardinal, who have both tried to keep the king here.”

“Tried and failed.” Aramis shook his head. “It’s madness. He needs to be at La Rochelle, he needs to show his troops… and the Huguenots of course. What kind of siege is it where the commander leaves?”

“Richelieu is the commander.” Athos looked at both of them in turn. “Who, you should know, we are to report to directly.”

Aramis patted Athos’ shoulder. “Think we’ll leave that to you.”

Athos huffed, but Porthos was proud of him. Tréville trusted him. The captain knew Athos wouldn’t embarrass him and wouldn’t let his men come to any harm. Athos was good at being in charge. He didn’t make a big deal of it, but Porthos knew.

After the king left the camp, things went downhill. Porthos caught snatches of conversation here and there. The declining morale among the troops and the lack of order now that many of the high-ranking officers had gone, as well as some bitter comments about how it was carnival season and an excellent time for hunting back in Paris. More important things. More important than the siege, the soldiers… It all seemed so pointless now that the king had turned his attention elsewhere.

Pointless… the word swam through Porthos’ mind so many times. Pointless to continue the siege without the king here, their leader and commander. Pointless to follow the cardinal when he wasn’t the instrument of the king’s will. Pointless to have musketeers remain here without their king to protect and fight for. Pointless to have two musketeers sitting by his bed.

Hours and days flowed into each other, an endless stream of coughs and pain and sweat and shivers. It could have been an eternity, or no time at all. Porthos didn’t know. They made him eat and he wanted to ask, but eating and coughing and thinking was hard work and he forgot. And somehow it didn’t matter.

Aramis changed the bandages around his arm, holding it gently. Porthos thought he could have held up his arm by himself, but he didn’t really mind and didn’t really try. It was fine… so fine… so…

“I’m sorry,” Aramis whispered and Porthos wondered what he was sorry for.

“I’m so—” Aramis’ voice hitched and Porthos noticed that his eyes were shining with tears. He wondered what Aramis knew that he didn’t. Or didn’t want to know. He was so weak he knew what was coming. And Aramis knew. But Porthos didn’t want him to… didn’t want to think of it himself…

Then again… He wondered… If he really… then what would happen? Athos would sit and write a letter, his hands no longer bandaged. He’d report to Tréville and Tréville… Porthos wanted to believe that the captain would be sad. He hadn’t been back to see him before he left, but Porthos understood. Moving almost the entire regiment would have kept him busy, too busy to look in on one lowly man. But he liked to think that the captain cared. He cared about all of them. He’d be sad when he read Athos’ letter. By that time, Porthos would be long buried. He’d never thought of that. It would be odd to be buried and so far from home. But he guessed he’d had it coming a long time now. He should have died that day when he first met Tréville… and even back then, he’d been kind. He’d be sad, Porthos was sure.

They’d be, too. Athos and Aramis. But they’d move on. More battles to fight, more people to meet… He’d be a memory. It wasn’t a bad thought. He hoped they’d remember him like he used to be. Strong and skilled and ready to laugh. He longed to be that man again, at least in their memories. If they could do that for him then there was nothing to worry about. They’d be fine and he’d be, too.

He was floating.

It wasn’t a sudden realisation that he would die. It wasn’t tied to pain or to suffocating or to anything in particular. It appeared at some point and then it slowly grew larger like a ship on the horizon until he knew it for sure. The doctor’s treatment hadn’t work and Aramis’ treatment wasn’t working either. There wasn’t any other way now. He would die.

It wasn’t a bad thought, not really, but he was sorry to leave. He knew that God knew best. He could hear Aramis pray and knew it was on his behalf. It made him feel warm inside to know he was protected like that. But it didn’t mean he wanted to leave. There was so much he wanted to do. He’d seen the mountains, he’d seen the sea… he’d made friends and become a musketeer… But there was so much left to do.

Flea.

He’d meant to find her and talk to her, but there was always so much going on. First, he hadn’t been sure he was really a musketeer and then there was Aramis and then Athos and then… He’d walked past the Court sometimes and paused for a moment, thinking he should go in, but he never had. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was not wanting her to laugh at him. And now… now she’d never know how happy he’d been, how much he’d loved… She’d never know how much he’d thought of her. She’d never know that it was possible for them to live outside the Court and be happy.

He wished Athos could write a letter to Flea as well. But of course no messenger would deliver it to the Court and nobody would be able to read it there. And even if… What would he say? He imagined dictating the letter to Athos. All those years… He’d been back in Paris for so long she must have known. And yet she never found him. Maybe she wanted to forget. Maybe she was happy, too. Maybe… But oh, how he missed her.

Sometimes he thought she was there. He could feel her fingers, calloused but gentle. He could see her hair, glowing in the sun. But when he blinked, it was always Aramis.

He slept a lot, but whenever he woke, Aramis was there, or sometimes Athos as well. They fed him and they washed him and they held him when he coughed. Coughing still felt like he was being torn apart from the inside. He preferred sword wounds or bullets to this.

He was sitting up in bed and coughing so hard it felt like he was being scraped raw. It looked it, too. Splotches of blood appeared on the white handkerchief Aramis held for him. When it was over, Aramis discarded the handkerchief. Porthos watched him carefully put his face back together into his usual mask of calm and composure. It didn’t quite work. The pieces wouldn’t fit. For once, the cracks were showing.

Porthos reached out his hand and Aramis took it. They sat in silence, but there was so much being said.

Porthos’ eyes filled with tears. One after the other, the tears rolled down his face. He didn’t wipe them away. They had every reason to be there. Aramis’ fingers twitched in his. Aramis was blinking fast, pressing his lips together in a tight line, but there was no denying that he was crying as well.

Porthos swallowed, his sore throat constricting painfully.

“What are you going to do when I die?” he asked.

Aramis’ face went slack as he abandoned all attempts to hide his tears. They flowed freely. His eyes turned red, but he never moved them away from Porthos, staring at him like he wanted to memorise his face.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice unnaturally high. He brushed roughly over his face with his sleeve. “I can’t handle it all.”

He was sniffing now, swallowing heavily and gritting his jaw, but unable to stop the tears. He looked miserable and Porthos wanted to do something, wanted to help, but really…

“How do you think I feel?” he asked. Because it wasn’t Aramis who was dying, it was him.

Aramis didn’t need to reply. After a moment, he slipped from his chair and onto Porthos’ bed. They sat there, staring at each other with wet eyes. They both knew there was nothing to be said. It just… was.

Aramis leaned forward and pulled Porthos into a hug. They cried quietly together, clinging to each other for some kind of reassurance.

And then Porthos coughed.

Of course, the cough had to ruin everything. Couldn’t even let him have that one moment of peace. But Aramis didn’t let go. He held Porthos throughout it all, holding the pieces together and letting him lean against his shoulder for support. Porthos was helpless, being shaken by the cough, spluttering over Aramis’ shoulder and onto his shirt, too weak to do anything. But Aramis was there. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He kept rubbing Porthos’ back with long, soothing strokes, kept holding him tight enough to support, but not so tight as to restrict his breathing. It felt good and safe and like he was home.

Maybe it was that. It wasn’t just Aramis either. It was Athos coming back into their room and every time without fail asking Porthos how he was, listening patiently to his wheezed replies or giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze when he was too weak to talk. It was Bisset and Bernard and even Hugo the stable boy sending their best wishes and support. It was the food made specially for him. All of those things played together, supporting each other like they did in a fight. It was a fight, after all. And it was good to know that he wasn’t alone.

Somehow, slowly, Porthos got better. It was so gradual, he didn’t even notice at first. But then he was speaking more and coughing less and one day, rather than dreading each bite, he found himself asking for a little more at the end of a meal. He was still tired most of the time, but it started to feel more like a cold and less like dying. In a way, it felt like spring had come early that year. Still some lingering frost, but also the knowledge that better times lay ahead, that the time for sickness and hunger was almost past.

He really noticed he was getting better when Aramis started to leave him alone for short periods of time. Never for long, but long enough to assure Porthos that he wasn’t in any immediate danger of keeling over.

Not that he was steady on his feet either. After a few days of feeling like he wasn’t dying just yet, he refused to use the chamber pot. Athos, who had been sitting quietly, writing a letter, was so alarmed by his announcement that he left a splotch of ink on the paper.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, furiously blotting the page.

“I’ve got to get up some time,” Porthos said.

Athos looked uneasy at that, but Porthos stared him down. He knew this would be easier with Athos than with Aramis.

“You better be certain of this,” Athos said. “If anything happens, Aramis will have my head.”

“If you’d rather I go alone…”

Athos huffed in annoyance. “He’d definitely have my head for that.”

It all went well, of course it did, because while Porthos wasn’t at his best, he definitely _was_ able to walk down the corridor and relieve himself.

It was walking back _up_ the corridor that was the challenge. Porthos could have sworn it had stretched from a few feet to leagues. He knew he was slowing down and he knew that Athos was glaring at him. He also knew he could do this. Somehow. It wasn’t like he was walking back to Paris or even to La Rochelle. He was just walking back to his bed. He could do that. He could force his knees to not buckle, his lungs to not cough, and his eyes to stop telling him the whole world was spinning. Aramis didn’t call him a stubborn old mule for nothing. He could totally do this. He could absolutely, totally do this.

The wall crashed into him.

“Steady,” Athos said, grabbing his arm.

Porthos glared at the wall he was now, somehow, leaning against. The whitewashed stone looked entirely innocent, like it hadn’t just assaulted him.

“Come on, then.” Athos tugged his elbow. “Let’s keep you on the straight and narrow.”

Porthos batted his hand away. “I don’t need—”

“… to get any more bruises or scratches by stumbling into walls,” Athos finished his sentence for him. “Aramis. The integrity of my neck. You appreciate my concern.”

“I’m fine,” Porthos protested.

Entirely unimpressed, Athos lead him down the corridor at a safe distance from the wall. “As I have told you about my own state on countless occasions,” he said. “Only to be disregarded every time. Excuse me if I follow your example in this.”

Porthos huffed. It really did feel very much like the many, many nights when he’d made sure Athos got home in one piece. Only it didn’t feel like that at all because usually it wasn’t Porthos trying to sway as little as possible, to carry his own weight as much as possible, and to not seem quite as dizzy as he was. Not that he wanted Athos to get drunk, but Porthos had to admit he liked it much better when it was him doing the leading.

Porthos sat down with a groan. Of course, sitting down hurt. He was breathing hard, exhausted from his little excursion. Because apparently going for a piss was now a difficult battle for him. He sighed, burying his face in his hands. This sucked.

“What can I do for you?” Athos asked.

Porthos wanted to tell him to leave him, to go away, but really, that wasn’t fair. “Give me a moment,” he said instead.

“But you made it,” Athos said. He sounded properly proud. Sure enough, it would have been something special for a two-year-old.

Porthos kicked his foot against the bed. That’s what it had come to; that was the level he was at. Good job, little baby, you only needed Uncle Athos holding your hand while you took your first steps. Well done.

“What is it?” Athos asked.

“What is it?” Porthos wanted to shove Athos’ posh, polished accent right down his posh, polished throat. “What do you _think_ it is?”

He looked up, glaring at Athos.

Athos raised an eyebrow. “I would not be asking if I knew.”

“I’m bloody useless!” Porthos threw a pillow across the room. “Can’t even walk on my own.”

“You are not.” Athos sounded as patient and long-suffering as a kind father with his child. Because that was Porthos’ role. The little boy they had to drag along, that they put up with because he was occasionally entertaining and they were kind men after all.

“I mean it,” Athos said, pouring wine for them both. He handed Porthos a cup.

Porthos stared into the red liquid. They should have let him bleed out. They could have gone with the king and be back in Paris now and not stuck here with him and the cardinal. Not that Porthos wanted to be dead, not even close. But he didn’t want to be this.

“I’m holding you back,” Porthos mumbled into his wine.

“From what?” Athos asked.

“From…” Porthos hesitated. It was obvious. “From being you. Being musketeers.”

“One for all and all for one. We might not be the whole regiment, but we are certainly representing the _all_ here.”

Porthos gulped down his wine in one while Athos studied him patiently over the rim of his cup.

“You dislike being the _one_ rather than part of the _all,”_ Athos observed.

Porthos sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for Athos’ philosophical nonsense.

“I dislike being useless.”

“As I already said—”

“Don’t. I can’t even walk. Of course I’m…” Porthos shook his head. “You know why I’m a musketeer. Tréville doesn’t keep me around for this.”

“Why does he keep you, in your opinion?”

Porthos laughed bitterly. “Not many reasons, eh? I’m strong and hardy, that’s why.”

“So now that you are neither, you feel useless. I see.” Athos nodded slowly. “You’re more than that though.”

“Right… I’m hard-working as well. Sure looks it now.” Porthos picked at a loose thread.

“These are not the qualities Captain Tréville values the most in you,” Athos said.

Porthos didn’t reply. If Tréville didn’t value that, then what? Did he keep him around out of pity? Or out of some misplaced guilt over the bridge incident years ago?

“He values your skill and your intelligence, your courage and devotion,” Athos continued.

Porthos huffed. “I don’t have any of that. No more than any other musketeer.”

“You do.”

_”You_ do. You’re the best swordsman in the regiment. You’re the second in command.”

“I’m not.”

“As good as.”

“Whatever I am, I would be much less without you.”

“Sure.” Porthos crossed his arms. It still hurt his ribs but wasn’t too bad now. He’d rather have that sting than to continue this talk. But Athos wasn’t so easily silenced.

“I wouldn’t be alive without you, nor would Aramis. You leaped after him—”

“Everyone would have. I was closest. If you had been then—”

“Then Aramis would be dead. I would not have dived into the freezing, churning sea in the middle of an English attack to search for a man who was, in all likelihood, already dead.”

“That’s not true.”

Athos cocked his head and looked at Porthos with an odd half-smile. “That insistence is what makes you so remarkable and far from useless. You see the best in people and you give your all, no matter what.”

Porthos didn’t know what to reply to that. “Was only one thing, getting Aramis,” he mumbled.

“Only saving a brother’s life,” Athos said. He let it linger, turning away from Porthos towards the table. And of course there was nothing _only_ about Aramis. Of course not. It was just… just Porthos, really.

Athos shuffled through some papers. “You have no idea how much he cares about you,” he said.

“I know Aramis—”

“Not Aramis. Captain Tréville.”

Porthos’ breath caught in his throat and he coughed. He waved off Athos’ attempt to help. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Athos’ words went round and round in his head. When his cough finally quietened, he shook his head to get rid of them. “He cares about all of us,” he said.

Athos still wore that strange little smile, which was probably some sort of record for him.

“He doesn’t let all of us touch his records.”

Oh. That. Porthos looked away.

“Every letter he writes, he asks about you,” Athos said. “In every letter, there’s fear that while he’s writing you are already dead.”

Porthos picked at the blanket, tugging at a loose thread and digging his finger into a small hole.

“The captain’s not afraid,” he said. “He’s gotta make sure the regiment’s alright.”

Athos continued to go through the papers on the table. He sorted them into a pile and carefully set out one blank sheet, the inkwell, and the quill. He didn’t sit down though.

“Write to him,” he said.

“That’s your thing.”

Athos looked at him like he was being dense. He really was turning into Tréville.

“Your report will be more meaningful than mine,” he said. “He won’t readily believe me that you are up and fine. He has no choice if it’s written in your hand.”

“I can’t…”

“You can and you have. He trusted you with the regimental records after all.”

That was a fond memory. Writing in a book. Writing the history of the regiment. Not big history, of course, but still events that had happened and he had been trusted to record them.

“Alright.” Porthos got up. His blood rushed to his feet and he swayed. The room was small enough for him to catch himself on the table.

“Maybe not right now,” Athos said.

Porthos shook his head. “I’m up now.”

To Athos’ credit, he didn’t say any more about it. Once again, Porthos was glad that Aramis was out. He sat in a chair for the first time in what felt like years. It wasn’t comfortable, but he wasn’t going to moan about that. At least his head had stopped spinning. He straightened the already perfectly straight paper.

“So now what?” he asked.

Athos leaned back against the windowsill. “My suggestion would be the same procedure we followed previously. Since this is your letter, you may of course alter my words at any point.”

Porthos nodded and carefully picked up the quill. It felt odd to force his fingers around something so small. It was slow progress and didn’t look very neat. Athos had to spell out a great many words. Not that it was a long letter, either, but by the time he’d signed his name at the bottom, Porthos was insanely proud of his work. He never really got to sign his name anywhere. It felt very official, like he was an officer or something.

Athos looked over the letter and found nothing wrong with it at all. He folded it and sealed it and made it look even more official.

“We’ll send it off to Paris tomorrow,” Athos said.

Porthos pictured that whole long journey, all those days of riding across fields and rivers and everything. And his letter would travel there. Back to Paris, back home to the garrison. He thought of the captain in his office, breaking the seal and reading the letter. It was incredible to think that they could share their news like that, that even though there were many leagues between them, Tréville would see his words in a week or so. Would see his words and know he was still alive. He hoped it would make Tréville happy. He didn’t want him to worry any more.

“Your penmanship has improved greatly,” Athos said.

Porthos shook his head. “’s nothing special.”

“It’s more than most. Even within the regiment, few can say they’ve written a letter of their own. Given your circumstances, it’s most remarkable.”

Porthos had no desire to discuss his circumstances. They’d find some way to say his childhood had ruined him for life and he didn’t want to hear that. Not again. Thankfully, Athos kept quiet. He helped Porthos back into bed and made sure he had something to drink. Then he leaned back against the windowsill once more, crossed his arms, and looked Porthos up and down.

“You can do many things,” he said.

“Well, I can’t spell without your help.” Porthos picked at the blanket again. He knew he hadn’t done well today.

Athos shrugged. “And you don’t have to.”

“Always needing help,” Porthos grumbled. And even with Athos’ help… He’d struggled with many words and even had to cross out a few mistakes.

“We’ll need yours,” Athos said. “I’d encourage you to rest and get your strength back.”

He sounded more serious than before. Porthos scrunched up his face, trying to read Athos. He had the feeling this was about more than his health. “What are you on about?”

Athos poured himself another drink and took a long, slow sip. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” he said. Then a quick smile flickered across his face. “But I know it won’t leave this room and I believe you should know. There’s a plan to enter the city.”

Porthos’ eyebrows shot up. After all these months they’d finally take La Rochelle? All that waiting and building and sitting around and now, with the king gone, they’d go in at last?

“How?” he asked.

“There’s a small canal passing under the wall,” Athos explained. “Used to transport salt in the past and now poorly guarded, sealed by a wooden gate.”

“Do you know how it’s secured?”

“It’s not very strong from what I’ve heard.”

“Easier to open than break through. Quieter as well.”

“The purpose is hardly to be undetected.”

Porthos huffed out a laugh. “You’d still be in the water and fighting your way up the banks as soon as they discover you.”

“Us.”

“I’m not ready.”

“There’s still ice on the canal. We’re aiming for mid-March.”

“Mid-March…” Porthos stared out of the window at the bare branches of a tree. That was a month or so away. Much could happen in a month. “I need a description of that gate and the lock.”

“The plan is to blow it up.”

Porthos shook his head. “That’s a lot of men and effort to get enough powder there and keep it dry. As soon as the ice’s gone, it’ll be marshy again. There must be a better way.”

“You should work on getting well fast then. You’ve got the cardinal to convince.”

Porthos held up his hands. “Definitely your job, that.”

“I’ll do the talking if you want,” Athos said. “But I would look rather ridiculous expounding the virtues of lock-picking.”

Porthos chuckled at that.

“We’ll need you,” Athos said.

“Sure,” Porthos said. “For the illegal stuff.”

“In the service of the king it’s hardly illegal. It’ll be an asset to us all.”

“It’ll save your lives sure enough.”

Athos smirked. “And makes you anything but useless.”


End file.
